The Album Leaf
by Vanamo
Summary: I can't think of anything to say. Nothing I say at this point matters. You're still dying. Camteen.
1. Chapter 1

I'm thrilled to finally get around to writing this. It's been swirling in my head for a long time. This will be sad, possibly a tearjerker, certainly depressing. Remy's Huntington's is very advanced, Cameron isn't holding up very well. I've read over anything and everything I can find on HD but there will likely be inaccuracies - apologies in advance. This is very different from my usual writing. This idea came to me while listening to The Album Leaf's Into the Sea, which I don't own, blah blah blah. Just read the story.

* * *

The nurse says I should go get something to read. You're resting, recovering…I don't like that word, since its meaning is deceptive. I can't fool myself, it's a classical manipulation to give yourself a bit of hope. Still, it's a lie. She just wants me to leave anyway, while they give you more drugs and take vitals, which I know how to read and interpret. But she's trying to be nice, and I'm too worn out to thank her for the blessing in disguise it will be to leave the room, the atmosphere of death hanging over us.

So I drive home. There's another thing you can't do anymore. My mind has become a timeline of despair, like the feeling one has when trying to hike down a hill. It's just a few little rocks in your shoes at first, and you begin to realize this hill is steep and rugged and you can barely keep your balance, but your feet won't hold and you fall and the only thing you can do to keep from crying is laughing. And god, you're shaking and you ask yourself why you wanted to get here in the first place and –

"Shit!" I gasp as I slam on the breaks at the red light. I do that a lot now, go off on random monologues in my head and just forget I'm in this world. I'm sure if I didn't it'd all just be too much. I just have to still be breathing, be strong for you. Because your strength is leaving you and I don't, no, can't bear to think about breathing. If I break down, it's just…

Green light. Drive. Just…just drive.

And I'm home. Ok. Keys, opening the door. We moved, ah, I don't remember how many years ago. Rather, I don't want to remember because it just shows another milestone of when you couldn't get up the few steps we had in the apartment. Breathe. I have to keep reminding myself.

There are books on the shelf, but they're all yours. I haven't read them (since you can't anymore) except for during hot summer nights a long time ago, and you'd read to me. It was wonderful, one of my favorite memories. I didn't hear a word you said sometimes because you just looked too beautiful. And I'd kiss you, and the memory would become even sweeter.

It fades before I can lose myself in it. I pass over the bookshelf and head back to the bedroom. I've never told you this, but I almost hate our house now. It's transformed over the years - lost a little more personality as you became further away from me. Which was inevitable but I somehow thought I could handle. Padded doors, the ramp out front… I hate our bed now too. For the longest time holding you in my arms was enough, but now the piece of furniture that graces that room feels foreign and sterile. Its low to the floor and there are walls around it to keep you from falling, it actually lets you sleep more than a few hours. But I know on good days you hate it too, because you know that there is no love in that room anymore.

But I need to get clothes. So I go over to the closet and grab…well, the things that are clean. I'm aware how disorganized my life has become, but I don't dwell on it. I'm spending more time at the hospital than I am here anyway. You've been…I can't say away, because I don't know if you're still there half the time.

I suddenly feel sick. A lurch in my stomach travels through to my knees, which are shaking like brittle stalks in the wind. And down I go to the floor, maintaining my balance enough to land without seriously injuring myself. As a consequence, many times when you weren't so lucky flash through my mind. I hurriedly push them away and gather my arms around my shoulders, trying to focus on calming down. Get back into routine. These rudimentary things and thoughts are the only things that keep me, ah, no, forget that. You can't call me sane either.

Clothes, I was getting clothes. They're in a messy pile on the floor next to me. In my little battle with gravity I knocked the closet door a little wider. There are boxes back here? It's on your 'side', I guess that explains things. Of course I don't just spend my time going on random searches of our house (because it's still _ours,_ I remind myself) but I find it odd I didn't notice it before.

Curiosity gets the best of me. I lean forward and try to pull it out, but quickly realize how heavy it is. When did you put this back here? From the dust on my fingers, a long time ago. Nevertheless, I pry the cardboard out from under itself and it opens with a small poof.

Books. No, they're rather thin and leather-bound with page markers. There's no title on the fronts or spines. Journals. No, diaries.

I pull the two ones on top out and open the black one with yellow pages. _Journal of J. Hadley – 1989. _Remy was born in 1980, so she would have been 9. I give myself a pat on the back for my first grade level math. It feels worn down in my hand. I leaf through it, pages and pages of nearly illegible script – her father kept journals? But how did she get them?

I pick up the second one. It's soft, grey leather and the handwriting is different. There is only a date scrawled in the first margin – September 26th, 1989. More curious about this one, you cast her father's journal aside and read the first entry.

_I'm getting out of PE today. I'm glad I guess. I need my inhaler for that class, and Marie makes fun of me. Bitch. Dad doesn't know I know that word. I was sent to the office. This lady told me to write in here. If I have a paragraph by the time she gets back I get to keep missing PE. I really hate that class. Because afterwards I go home. Mom already yelled at me this morning…again. Dad said he was taking her to the doctor. I don't know w_

And it cut off. The next entry, dated the 27th:

_So I found out I'm supposed to write my feelings in here. She'll read them if I let her, and we can talk. That's what this lady – Ms. Hayley – says. No way. That's all. _

And the next:

_Ok, so she told me to take it home and come to her if I ever need to talk. I don't know why I'd need to, since I'm FINE. _

_But _– I noticed a pause, like the pen had been left on the end of the cross of the t for a long time. Then a larger space than a person would normally skip. I continued apprehensively.

– _my mom isn't. The doctors said she's going to die. _

The rest of the page was blank. I don't realize I'm crying until the tears hit the paper. A whole new wave of emotions hit me. Without even opening the second journal I know what's inside. Remy hated and resented her mother, but she'd expressed that in these journals. And her father needed a solace, like I desperately crave.

I gather the clothes, stuff them in a bag, and clutch the two journals tightly against my chest all the way back to the hospital. Because right now, they're all I have.


	2. Chapter 2

There are 113 tiles from the elevator to your room. I don't walk along and count each one individually, but I've walked the route so many times I just somehow know from the many hours of staring at the floor. I'm on 96 and I don't want to go the rest of the way. But that's always how it is, because I don't want to face reality. If nothing mattered except these tiles…well, these tiles would somehow make me suffer too.

* * *

_Journal of J. Hadley – 1989_

_The doctor stopped me on my way out. Ann was already walking angrily to the car. He handed me this notebook and told me to write down any thoughts or questions I had. I have plenty of questions, my thoughts are racing but in a way, I'm not able to express them. _

_Ann is asleep…she looks peaceful. She started becoming irritable about a month ago. It was just these little things…she'd snap at Remy or I for no reason. I thought she was just stressed, so I gave her time and tried to be a good husband to her. About two weeks ago, just as school was starting for Remy –fourth grade this year, I can't believe it – we made dinner to cheer her up. She came back from the store and I saw her beautiful eyes, the ones I fell in love with, turn dark. _

_She yelled at Remy for what a mess the counter was. Then something about me being irresponsible and wasting all our money, before throwing a can of tomato sauce onto the floor. I'm sorry, love. She's aware that as this disease progresses, she'll need to quit her job. But I don't even know what's going to happen. The doctor said she'll need medication, therapy…I don't know our health insurance will cover this. I guess I'll give them a call. Even now as she sleeps, I can't bear to think about how it will only get worse. _

_I'm scared. I'll admit it. I don't know how we'll get through this. I was never one to believe in any god, and Ann thinks it's a load of crap. _

_But I have to be strong. For Ann, and for Remy. Because according to the doctors, this disease is genetic. _

_I won't lose my wife. And I won't lose my daughter. I'll find a cure myself, I just can't…_

_I can't. _

_

* * *

_

And I'm back by your bedside. Is it wrong that I'm reading this? After all, I stole it…well, no. To steal is to have the person you're taking it from not want you to have it. And I can't really ask you if you mind. But I think I couldn't stop if I wanted to. I feel like my mother's antique dolls, crafted so carefully but just durable enough to be handled by unsteady hands. But you keep dropping me, and it's not your fault, but I keep getting cracks. A finger chips, an eyelash falls out, and I'm dragged across the floor when in my little doll mind, I thought I could always keep you happy.

* * *

_9/30/89_

_I'm NOT writing because the woman told me to. I'm just writing because they're on one of their drives and I'm bored. I mean I could read or something but I don't feel like it. But yeah, they do that when they need to talk about stuff and don't want me putting my ear against the door or watching through the cracks. Then it's like nothing ever happened and we have dinner and watch Jeopardy. I'll beat mom one day. _

_It's kind of…weird. She doesn't look sick. She's been cranky and stuff but Hermes Boyle is always cranky because Rachel teases him about his name. Well duh, who wouldn't…well, I don't, but that's cuz Rachel and Marie pick on me for my weird name too. Dad says I need to put myself in other peoples' shoes more. It sounds stupid to me, but if my shoes were muddy I'd want to switch them with Rachel's pretty Little Mermaid shoes and then she'd FREAK OUT and probably fall on her face and I could laugh at her for once. But I don't, I like swinging though with my friend Sameer. He likes comic books and draws cool letters – not like bubble letters, they're spiky and boyish._

_Oh yeah, I was writing about my mom. Dad hasn't really talked to me about it yet. He's the one who always sits me down and gives me 'talks' and then mom takes me to the library and we do silly stuff sometimes. We watch movies too, old movies like black and white and the images look like someone kinda crumpled them up and made them all flat again, and the girls are pretty with wide eyes and the men are handsome and tall, but mom told me once that movies are just how we want life to happen. I thought that was smart. I told mom she should be in a movie. _

_She said: If I was in a movie, we all would live happily ever after. _

* * *

I know, that's probably the longest I've ever gone without updating and I give you this. Life is at the very least stressful at the moment, apologies, I'll write when I have time. This is just my crazy experiment after all. Thank you everyone for the reviews, I'll sincerely try not to make anyone cry. And if I do then enjoy it anyway. Thank you all again.


	3. Chapter 3

Sometimes I think I should take up smoking or some other disgusting, self destructive habit. I see the pros: you're doing something that requires you to not think. But at the same time, that's when people do some of their best thinking. Smoke would fill my lungs and I'd be slowly sucking my life away, seven seconds at a time. And if I smoked enough, we'd die at about the same time.

But I've done the math. I'm too far behind.

* * *

_Diary of J. Hadley – 1989_

_Things are changing with Ann. It's becoming more noticeable. Not the chorea, like the doctor tells me will come…she just stays in bed all day. I've tried talking to her. I don't know whether she's depressed or just tired. She already quit her job – around Thanksgiving, after she yelled at her boss – but I'd thought she'd at least help around the house. I don't understand it. _

_She still refuses to accept it. I don't know how much I can either. But I know I'm slowly…losing her. That's the easiest way to describe it. Things are changing and I'm supposed to be the pillar she can hold on to, but what if she just breaks me apart? Or worse, Remy. It's not like we were the picture perfect marriage before this…_

_Last Saturday morning, I was out getting groceries. Ann and Remy have a routine. It's Tom & Jerry – the cat and mouse who keep chasing and tricking each other – while the clothes are in the wash, and then they hang them up on the line. Then more Tom & Jerry while Ann irons and Remy will put things away. She's gotten Ann hooked on the cartoon. Last spring Remy made a Rube Goldberg machine for the Science Fair, those things where you send a marble down a ramp and it sets off a whole load of fun contraptions and about twenty feet later you have a poured glass of water. She learned that from when Tom tried to catch Jerry with one, so who says TV doesn't teach you things? She won first place. _

_I was out getting groceries. That's my routine. So I don't know what happened exactly. I got home and the smoke alarm went off. I ran up the stairs two at a time and found Remy and scooped her up. She started to cry. _

"_Dad," she said._

_Yes, I'm your dad. "Where's mom?" _

"_In the bedroom. The ironing, I tried to but –"_

_I ran my hands though her hair and kept her head down as smoke began to blur the air. _

_Ann was standing by the ironing board. The crisp white blouse had been burned at the breast pocket – an ugly stain that shouldn't have been there. The button had started to melt. I frantically looked around for the iron. Tom & Jerry kept playing. _

_Ann gripped the board at the side and nodded her head to the floor by the bed. The iron singed the hardwood floor and I raced to unplug it before the house burned to the ground. _

"_Why did you do that?" she asked me angrily. "I was just watching TV."_

_That's when I saw Remy clutching her hand. I grabbed her wrist and saw the beginnings of blisters. She'd pushed it away. My baby. This wasn't supposed to be happening. I held her tighter, keeping her in my arms and away from her. She began coughing – smoke is an asthma trigger – and that's when I turned around and left the house without a word to Ann. _

_The burn wasn't serious. I got Remy ice cream and she ate it with shaky hands._

_When we got home, it was twilight. Remy said something about homework and went to her room. I found Ann lying on the bed on top of the sheets, with her arms above her head and one leg stretched out. The windows were open to air out the smoke. The moonlight filled the room and she turned to me and said, "What's happening to me?"_

_I hugged her, while the burn of the blouse was masked by the shadows and the nonsensical orchestra of Tom & Jerry played in the background. _

* * *

I remember the day. The beginning of the end. That term is also one I hate, since we're all dying. But it was a day that was different from all the others. You were working a night shift in the ER. Twelve hours, a flood of unfortunate souls who could only be grateful for those words: don't worry, we'll take care of you. Things will be _ok._

You got home and woke me up. You kissed me, my body. I love it when you do that. But it was a restless love. Your hands kept moving, like they couldn't find a place they wanted to stay. Afterwards, you got right back up. Well, it was sunrise after all, but I asked you why. You'd just worked an exhausting shift most doctors would pay _not_ to get stuck with.

"I want to go for a jog," you said. You wanted to run for miles. I looked at you: your face was slightly pink, your hair and face were a bit sweaty but your eyes shined at me like running was the most exciting thing in the world.

So we went for a jog. You wanted to keep running but I had to stop. You kept shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

I laughed and asked just how much caffeine you'd had.

Then I remembered you didn't drink caffeine.

* * *

11/13/89

_Dad says mom is being lazy because of the disease. It sounds stupid to me. He gave me this list of big words that the doctor gave him because he didn't know how to explain it. This is what it says:_

_HD affects the subcortex of the brain and the connections to front of the brain which are crucial for drive and initiative – Blah blah blah – allow us to think ahead, make plans, generate the actions appropriate to those plans, and to persevere on tasks until goals are achieved, the drive or foresight to self-initiate activity is severely compromised, even though the skill to carry out the activity is still retained. The patient may potentially be capable of carrying out a task, yet is unable to generate the motivation or initiative to embark on it._

_I had to look up a few words but I think it means she can do stuff, her brain just says 'I'd rather sleep'. I have to do a lot more chores now that she's like this. I have to make my own breakfast. Dad won't let me near the toaster oven since I got burned a few weeks ago, so I have to eat cereal. I have to bring her breakfast too. She doesn't even say thanks. _

_Then some days, she's the total opposite. This one has a term: _

_Akathisia - motor restlessness, difficulty maintaining a position, or a need for constant movement. People have described this feeling as one of being "supercharged" all the time._

_When she's all akathisiasized, she's all over the place. Vacuuming and cooking and cleaning and in the garden and all this other stuff. I don't know which one I like more. _

_No. I don't like either one. _

_

* * *

_

I acknowledge that I do not own the information in this chapter, part has been taken from an article by Dr Julie S Snowden has been taken from Issue 50 - Winter 1996 edition of the Huntington's Disease Association Newsletter (London) published on the Huntington's Disease Associations of New Zealand webpage, which I have no affiliations with. Please don't sue me.

And now, I apologize for yet another long wait. Prom banner is done but life is still hectic. I can't really force this story and I'm thinking I need a happier story to balance the severe depression of this one. But I hope everyone is enjoying this and I'll try to sort things out. Everyone enjoying their weekend?


	4. Chapter 4

There's this tree I saw. About half way up the trunk, part of the bark was missing and there was a line through it. The part missing bark was shaped like a fish. I smiled unconsciously and began to think of other things it looked like. It became a girl with bushy leaves and branches for hair and a timid grin, then the first stroke of a magnificent painting as the shades of green and brown danced into gold. But then I realized it was none of those things. Someone had decided to take a knife and cut that tree, and the bark fell away and the tree sap secreted out at the edges. Somebody hurt that tree.

But a tree doesn't feel pain, right?

* * *

_Journal of J. Hadley – 1989_

_The tremors have started. They've almost consumed her, us, so much that this journal was left in a drawer for nearly two months. It was so slight at first, barely noticeable. Of course to Ann it was the world. She had to start to accept that she was…she still hasn't accepted it. Or admitted to it anyway. I've stopped counting how many times she's lashed out at me. The least I can do is make sure that Remy doesn't have to deal with it. After Christmas, I signed her up for after school care. She seems to like it. They do art projects, which she enjoys. Not that she talks to me much about them, but she was always quiet. I hope she's making friends. _

_Ann is muttering something in her sleep. It made me turn around and look at her – because I only write in the dark hours, I'm a night person – and her face…in these last few months, she looks like she's aged years. I try to talk with her. At first it worked, I got her to cry for me. Cry for me, let me take away that pain. But now it's like we're trapped in a clock. The nuts and bolts are supposed to be perfectly in sync, but they're rusty and loose. They're falling down on us and instead of slowing the clock down, the ticking only gets louder. Her hands twitch to that ticking. And somewhere, I'm sure there's a cuckoo clock going off. _

* * *

You tried to deny it. You had that look in your eyes and I knew it was all flashing before you – what you'd witnessed, what images you'd been imprinted with. Our life and what would become of it. In some odd way I was proud. After all this evading of the fact that you were really dying, when the first symptom started we didn't have to go through it all again. We knew it was inevitable and yet we loved the denial we were allowed for a few years, but at the same time quietly accepted your, our, fate.

Your body shifted. You planted your feet firmly to the ground and I could almost see your toes curl into your shoes in effort to hold onto the ground. On instinct I leaned forward to hug you and that's when you backed away into a white picket fence covered in ivy. What we would have never had, covered in a plant that will just never die. I have the sudden urge to scream 'dramatic irony!' and wait for the curtain call, but of course that never happens. It's just my mind falling back into escapism, where you jump out from behind the curtain and say 'just kidding, I'm all better!'…and there goes my slightly lightened mood.

Back to somewhat near where I was – you bit your lip and shook your head just a bit, side to side. You were still in control. You didn't want to break down. And you wouldn't. You're mine and you're strong and I love you, and that's what I whispered in your ear for hours, along with other little three word snippets of comfort. We ran in an angled beeline around the neighborhood so it was just a short walk back to the house. And that's when, in the familiarity and safety of our four walls, you let the tears fall. Because really, what else were you supposed to do?

And then I realized that from here on, we were going to fall apart. Each day would be a chip in our ideal life together and another crack that would widen as time grew. Time, in our case, wouldn't heal wounds but make them.

I won't even waste the super glue.

* * *

12/31/89

_It's 11:45 and I'm up past my bedtime. Dad has a really big flashlight. It hurts my eyes because it's so bright, but it's the only one I could find. I'm going to stay up until midnight. _

_I've only done it once before. I was five. I told mom I was going to do it and she couldn't stop me. So we threw a party. The neighbors came over. I remember them, the girl was named Kathryn and the boy was Mitchell. He was stupid and picked his nose, so I locked him outside but dad made me let back in. Jerkface. We moved after that._

_Mom and me make cookies at Christmas. It's our tradition. Cookies from scratch are for holidays only. We took turns stirring them up and pouring in chocolate chips or nuts and raisins, for the icky ones mom gave away to people she secretly doesn't like. But the person thinks you like them if you give them cookies or a fruitcake, even though those are GROSS. But the cookies are just for us. _

_I asked mom when were we going to make cookies last week. She was lying on the couch and said we weren't. I really wanted to make them so I bothered her about it all day. We had to make some for Santa, even though I know by now that dad is really Santa. I caught him two years ago. I felt bad bugging her because I knew she didn't want to because her hands don't stay still. Plus I knew if I dropped anything, she'd yell at me. But we got out the bowls and all the ingredients._

_She tried to pour the sugar. I heard her muttering '3/4 cup of white sugar, 3/4 cup brown sugar' over and over. Her hand was shaking as she tried to pour it with the little spoon into the big cup but it spilled tiny flakes on the counter. So I got in front of her and stood between her feet. I held her wrist and helped pour it. I knew she was going to tell me she could do it herself. Actually I was sure she would. But she didn't. I saw her swallow and we put the sugar into the bowl. _

_She looked at the fridge. Eggs came next. I got them out and tapped them against the counter. I could finally do it right. Two eggs, no shells. Mom put them in the bowl. Then with the baking soda and salt, and for them you have to put the spoon against this tab in the container and it makes the spoonful even on top. I saw her hand shaking again and I said I'd do it. While I put them in, she got out the chocolate chips. I turned around and she had that look I have when I fall and am about to cry. I hugged her. My hands just barely stretch around her and my head fits against her chest. She rubbed my hair and whispered how sorry she was… _

The next part was scribbled out.

_Dad caught me up. He said for me to go to bed. I said ok. He said he loves me and I said it back. I realized my voice sounded like I didn't mean it. But I'm sleepy. _

_It's 12:17. Happy New Year. _

* * *

Because _someone _is such an impatient slavedriver, I'm doing a rare in the early hours post. Which is fun because I just wrote most of this in the last few hours :) Ok so for those who don't know, I was nominated for a House Fanfic Award (yes, we have awards) and results came out yesterday. Not only did I win in the femslash category, but I tied for best author! Rare moment of complete egotism, hell yes! Thank you everyone who voted and it's a real honor to know that my stories are enjoyed that much. In short you all rock. Also WonderousPlaceForAnEcho gets credit because I asked to steal about 4 lines and didn't paraphrase because there was no need. _Thank you _supreme dork, leave your review so I can get to sleep!


	5. Chapter 5

You know, the reason poets love to write about the loving a dying thing is because they haven't experienced love like it (and I don't blame them). What better way to assert that all love is hopeless than to have the fates cut the strings, cut them into perfect little pieces and make a sampler out of them that says more poetic words that mean the world nothing to me, but all the world to you. It should be the opposite. But I've loved you for so long, loved these moments we cherish and despise, and I know that what the poets say is secretly true. This love thing is beautiful, so naturally one of us must die.

* * *

_Journal of J. Hadley – 1990_

_They started Ann on drugs to help with her emotional balance. Then for the chorea. Then for the cognitive function. I count out the pills every two weeks and she takes them twice a day. _

_I hate this. I hate the plastic container and I hate the two-toned long capsule and the two little white ones and the four Tylenol I give her each day without the doctor's knowledge for the pain. Because it hurts. Go on, you try spending all your energy trying to control your own body. Each day I sit there and count out these pills, each day I do it she slips further away. That stupid pill box is the only thing that keeps me tethered to my own sanity. _

_The chorea got worse, to the point where her arms would flail without warning, forcing her to hold them close to her body. She can't sit straight, her back twists and her shoulders hunch forward. Her facial muscles weren't spared. I used to love her smile. It's been replaced by a seemingly permanent grimace, from the contorting, the fibers twisting in on themselves at the cellular level because of nerves misfiring, or the fact that she has no reason to smile anymore. She doesn't. Her eyes have lost their color – I'm unsure whether they've darkened or just become so clouded that I've lost her in them. _

_The meds help. Carefully so not to choke, she swallows them one by one. The antidepressants calm her down. The pain relief gives her broken sleep. Then the ones for the chorea make her vomit. They give her headaches and bring every other symptom back two-fold. The disease and the side effects blur together. And I know that if her emotions hadn't been so blunted, she'd cry. _

_I told the doctor this. So they started her on antipsychotics. _

* * *

I found you three times. Once in the living room, once in the bathroom, once in the kitchen. After the akathisia, you started physical therapy. You'd already been working out to improve balance and strengthen muscles for postural control and major muscle groups, which would be weakened over the course of the disease. You did running for cardio.

Turns out that the chorea was barely noticeable. Just small twitches of your fingers on occasion. You could still work. There was some rigidity and shoulder shrugging but you tried to hide it. I noticed anyway. Exercise is always recommended because it improves the lifestyle and helps counteract the depression.

Look at me, Remy. I sound like a doctor.

You were looking for something to read on the shelves, shifting your weight from one bare foot to the other. You always loved to read, and you hated that based on your looks people didn't take you seriously until you opened your mouth. We still went out. You didn't look sick yet.

You didn't hear me come in. Not thinking, I called your name.

You turned. Too fast. Muscle degeneration affects the extremities so well that your toes couldn't grab onto something. You found yourself on the floor with your legs bent as if one foot decided to collapse. Your elbows supported your trunk. They shook.

I ran to you and you yelled at me to get away. You could get back up by yourself.

Later that night you apologized – the first of many. Your head fit perfectly in the crook of my neck. It still does. I kissed you. You kept your hand in mine so if it twitched, we wouldn't have to see it. You were broken enough.

You handed in your resignation from the hospital the next day.

But we always end up coming back, don't we?

* * *

_5/10/90_

_I made mom an apple for Mother's Day. Mom likes apples because when you cut them one way, they make two hearts. When you cut them the other way, they make two stars. At after school care, we were doing clay. Most of the boys were throwing it. The teacher said we should all make something for our mothers. Then it would go in a big oven and come out white, and we got to paint our present. I didn't want to. That white clay breaks when you drop it. _

_I sit next to Karissa. She doesn't have a mom. She died in a car crash. Aaron's mom lives far away. She's in prison. I'm jealous. Her mom is dead. His mom isn't sick. _

_But I saw Karissa as we went outside to play. She looked really sad. I realized that she hates Mother's Day too. I took her hand and I brought her over to the little hill behind the playhouse. That way the boys wouldn't see her cry. I told her I understood. I didn't tell her that sometimes, I wished my mom was dead too. _

_Aaron heard her crying. He came over but looked like he didn't know what to do. Then I felt like I wanted to cry too. I wondered what his mom feels right now. I'm sure she misses him. But she knows she can never leave her prison. Did she know that right after whatever bad thing she did? _

_Aaron sat next to me. Karissa was on my right and Aaron was on my left. Cars and bars are mommy killers. Their scars bleed red. _

_Karissa asked why I was crying. I couldn't answer. _

_I made my apple. I painted it red, with hearts and stars. Karissa and Aaron helped me. _

_It's in pieces. Mom… dropped it. _

_Do apples leave scars too? _

* * *

The last part was inspired by Red Apples by Cat Power, give it a listen. Ok, announcement. Due to some digging into Remy's past, those producer bastards are forcing me to deal with some things. Why can't I ignore canon? Well, it's rather pointless to write this if it's not realistic. But the writers are throwing in some really weird things. Because some people have seen what I'm talking about and some haven't, I'm comprimising here. Some things will be used and the things that just aren't plausible won't, and I'll be adding my own plot devices. So by not telling you which is which, I'm not spoiling anyone! Follow my logic? Great :) And look, a fast update! I was depressed this weekend and look what springs forth. Enjoy.


	6. Chapter 6

Water has always intrigued me. It's this odd little chemical formation – two elements/ three atoms decided to bond one day and then whoopee, we have water! It's essential to all life – Save the dolphins, the ice burgs, the little fishies and the rainforest. It never does these things so you think we'd hate it by now, but _au contraire_, we're ignorant that there isn't enough to go around and it gets a little gold star (and I internally chuckle at my little periodic table pun). Water is supposed to save it all when in this one little drop of water on the window, the only thing reflected, the only thing it wants to save, is what it captures in it's upside-down little world.

It chooses instead to slide down the window. Oh well.

* * *

_Journal of J. Hadley – 1990_

_We're at the hospital. The antipsychotic medication apparently only made her worse. Or maybe things are just worse in general. It doesn't make much difference._

_Last night I was making dinner. I didn't burn the Mac & Cheese for once. Remy was sleeping over at a friend's and Ann wouldn't eat. I kept telling her she had to, but she wouldn't. She wouldn't and I kept telling her to…_

_The doctors said it's called Intermittent Explosive Disorder. They kept using the words 'level of functioning', 'break'. He said that routine is important to keep stress to a minimum. And they couldn't tell me these things beforehand? They've pumped her full of medications like she's some uncontrollable animal. Now I have to add mood stabilizers to the pill box. _

_It's my fault. I've been changing things up because I barely know how to cook. When she ate, when she takes her pills, when she sleeps. He recommended that I see someone too, for anxiety. Fuck him. _

_I don't even know how this ended up in the bag I put together in the two minutes it took the ambulance to get there. It doesn't matter._

_I'm only writing at this point because it's distracting. What am I supposed to do? At this point…_

_I wiped a stray hair out of her face. She looks tired. _

_I need to find Remy. Take her home. _

_

* * *

_

We thought we'd prepared ourselves for what would happen, the way one tries to prepare for a hurricane by disassembling their house. That makes no sense, now that I think about it. I'm running out of clever metaphors.

Well no, it makes some sense. If we disassembled our houses and our souls, the wind would sweep away all our troubles and the rain would pierce us and leave our skin raw. But if we had kept the walls up, the water would have risen until we were swept away without a chance.

We were out in the rain, remember? For days, and you told me that nothing is more peaceful, no, calming, because we can never truly reach peace in our current states, nothing is more calming than the rain at night. You jumped into a puddle and that spray of water surprised, shocked my heart out of rhythm. Remember that day?

Your incorrigible spirit loves the rain. And I love the rain too, because it reflects the color of your eyes even after they close. You sank into sleep more easily on rainy nights, the shaking stops and your body relaxes. Now it's like a relentless storm inside you that makes me want to scream.

I think I'm losing it. But as long as I lose it in the rain, I'll get it back eventually.

Turns out we're getting thunderstorms tonight.

* * *

_10/13/90_

_I'm not ripping this entry out. Every time I start to write, someone stops me or my fingers get sore. So not this time. If I can't write, I'll have nothing to do for as long as we're here. _

_Mom is in the hospital._

_Dad picked me up from Karissa's looking sad, as usual. It was really early. It was raining all night so it was still dark and cloudy. Rain was still in the air. I kind of love it like that. Dad used to drive me around in the rain to help me sleep. Not anymore. _

_He thanked Karissa's dad. Her dad is dating someone now. Karissa hates her. I gave him a hug so he didn't have to pretend to be strong in front of me. He leaned down and rubbed my back for a half second and we headed to the car. _

_I said: "Mom's in the hospital isn't she," because I knew she was. Otherwise she would be in the front seat, in front of me, thrashing and yelling. But it was quiet. _

_The rain began to start up again. He said, "Yeah."_

_I asked him what happened. He said she fell. _

_Liar. I've started counting the times he's lying to me. I can tell. He doesn't think I'm old enough to handle this. Maybe because he can't. Well I can. I hate her. I want her dead. I want her to not wake up. I want her to STOP YELLING. _

_We got to a red light. The road was clear except for us. I don't know what I was doing. I unbuckled myself and the door was open. _

_I was free. She could never get to me again! The rain blurred the clouds and ground together. I just ran. I ran and ran and ran and…._

_My chest felt heavy. I tried to breathe in and it was like a hollow, scratchy sound, like the first day in band class where nobody could make their instruments play. The rain got harder, like it was trying to punch me into the ground. It wanted to bury me with her. _

_Then warm arms. The rain above my head stopped. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the car with the door open. Dad fiddled with my inhaler and I pushed him away. I walked back to the car and buckled myself in. _

_He wanted to say something, but couldn't. So he just locked the doors. _

_It's still raining. That's why my face is wet. _

* * *

Not much to say about this chapter, I wasn't really feeling it in some places. And contrairy to any assumptions, we actually haven't gotten a lot of rain :p Happy Mothers Day *cough* This is an idiotic holiday because it only creates false emotion or can isolate and cause you to be miserable, depending on how dysfunctional your relationship with your mother, if you even have one, is *cough*. Wow, I should work for Hallmark.


	7. Chapter 7

The rain has come to an end, but the clouds still feel heavy. I can feel them even from here, overhanging, like they still have so much rain but are trying to hold it in. I wonder if they don't want to rain, or they want to keep it all for themselves. I examine their subtle shifts for awhile. Their shades of grey seem to change in the light. On one end is the slightest hint of this faded violet, which I know an artist could take and be unafraid to make a bright, alive streak, with a marigold speck to contrast. Just like the tree. They'd make each other _shine_, though the sun seems like it just decided to hide on the other side of the world.

It's getting progressively more humid as summer arrives. My body feels sticky and my hair is sticking to my face. So I close the window and just hold your hand.

* * *

_Diary of J. Hadley – 1990_

_After two more incidents, we decided that Ann would be better taken care of in a hospice. I just don't have the capacity to care for her here. The first time she fell and broke a small bone in her arm. I thought it may actually be a blessing in disguise – one arm she doesn't have to worry about moving against her will – but the doctor informed me that it would just result in more muscular degeneration from lack of use. Her arm still shook, but it just left coarser bruises, which I can't stop. Rather, I've stopped trying. _

_I don't think I've mentioned that I quit work awhile ago. I was working from home for awhile but I just couldn't… it doesn't matter. The paycheck would have helped, but the mortgage is still getting paid. Health insurance is running out though. If I had a larger life insurance policy…but I have to think of Remy. _

_She didn't ride with me. She didn't realize what this meant, I think. Or, I could be honest and admit to myself that she hates Ann as much as I do. My knuckles felt sore from knocking on her door as I gripped the steering wheel. Ann – her cast now off, even though the bones weren't completely healed, so she could use the walker – tried to look out the window. I had to help her adjust to keep her from hitting her head on the glass. Her skeleton fingers curled against it as we drove away. I slowed. I saw her concentrating on her fingers, twitching just enough to repeatedly hit the glass. I pulled over and placed my hand over hers, smoothing the knots and softly pressing mine against hers, so it in turn was pressed against the window. _

_I wanted to cry. Deep down, she still loved Remy. She loved me, even though she sometimes didn't remember. _

_Her neck curved awkwardly, with too much force, and I held her steady. She tried to say my name. One syllable, four letters, but each breath is becoming a struggle. _

_I found myself begging that you wouldn't be able to. You closed your half-lidded eyes and your grip on the window softened. Your eyes, the only things I still feel and see love in. _

_Please, forget me. Forget you love me. Let it fade. See through me. _

_Even if you had, it still wouldn't absolve the guilt for what I've done. What I'm still doing. _

* * *

The second time, I found you in the bathroom. I was working part time but making arrangements to leave completely. You wouldn't admit it, but you needed me now. And I needed, need you. So you can't leave me.

It was beginning to take a toll on you. Not the tremors so much, though your hands sporadically jumped now and you really didn't bother to hide it from me. You were paler. You crawled into bed with me, but I know you didn't sleep. I realized that I hadn't seen you smile in a long time. I didn't need an MRI to tell me that it wasn't me, but thinking back I still felt like it was my fault.

I came home. It was June, but we were having a cold front. There had been frost that morning. I was doing paperwork, but all the time I was thinking about you. How could I make you smile?

You were sitting on the loveseat with your legs crossed, Indian style. I didn't dwell on that you may have had trouble getting into the position. You were playing with something in your hands. A flash of pale purple before your hand masked it. Playing catch with yourself, rule one: throw. Rule two: and repeat. Simple enough for your cognitive function to still handle, but endlessly entertaining.

It was a rock. I didn't recognize it, but you made a habit of collecting odd things like that. It rolled from one hand to the other. The way it landed in your hand, I could tell it was smooth. Well worn down by water and time. Your eyes followed. Not bored, but in another place.

I walked over quietly. You saw me and looked up. Your lips remained closed as I pressed mine against them gently. I sat down next to you and hugged you tightly. I missed…miss, you. You closed your eyes and sighed. It wasn't out of relief…more like it'd been hard to breathe until then.

"Can I see it?" I asked after a moment.

You extended your hand so I could take a closer look, looking down at it yourself. Suddenly it popped out and tumbled a few times on the cushion of the loveseat.

"It's a Mexican jumping bean," you said. You tried to chuckle, but the sardonic tone fell, gave way to that quiet sadness you'd developed. A slight frown, partially hidden by the hair that had fallen from behind your ear. I picked up the rock and I nodded against your shoulder. I fingered it and held it to my chest. As I thought, it was smooth except for where the new layer had tried to form. It was trying.

A few hours later, we were in bed. Our old bed, the well worn one with sheets we'd spent hours, whole days, getting lost and finding each other in. The rock was on the bedside table.

You were looking up at the ceiling. After a moment you said in a quiet voice, "I forgot my meds."

I had already been drifting off but snapped back to attention. I mentally smacked myself for forgetting as well. You couldn't regularly miss doses. "Should I-?"

"No, I got it. Sleep," you said, carefully getting up. For a minute I thought you were being compassionate.

"I love y–" but you had already closed the bathroom door.

I waited. I began to drift off again, despite the growing ache in my chest. I know it's selfish, but I need you here to fall asleep. I was about to give up and help you when I heard it.

Your hand was gripping the sink so tightly that your skin was indistinguishable from the porcelain. Glass was scattered on the floor. Ignoring it completely (my bandaged feet hated me later), I ran to you, wrapped my arms around you. Your hands were ok. So were your wrists. I didn't want to look at your face but I knew I had to.

It hadn't even been scratched. On the surface, that is. You were eerily calm, or perhaps just unaware of what you'd done.

"What happened?" Though I really knew what happened. I touched your cheek and squeezed it just slightly. Reassuring you that I was there…here.

You began to take deeper breaths. Your chest heaved but words caught on your tongue. I waited, even though internally I felt like a train wreck waiting to occur in t-minus three seconds. Thoughts don't form; you clasp your hands and just pray. "Don't let me forget," you finally said in a cracked whisper.

"Forget what?"

You brought your hand, in a tight fist, up to your mouth and pressed your thumb against your lips, closing your eyes and shaking your head. You couldn't look at me. You tried to breathe. "That I…love you. Don't…don't let me, again."

Even after I cleaned up all the glass, I never found that rock.

* * *

_11/30/90_

_I have an internal bet going. Part of me says she'll back. She's too sick, too loud, beyond their help. Then I have to make dinner. Part of me says she'll die there. I'll come home from school, Dad will have that look, and I'll know. Her body finally caught up and shut down. We did all we could and we're very sorry for your loss. We can put her in the ground and put all the pictures of her in a cardboard box and forget that these last years happened. After all, she did. She's forgotten EVERYTHING. _

_Dad said it's an hour to the hospice. He'll be there most of the time now, I guess. I'm not going. I'll never go. Even when she dies, which I hope is soon. Part two of the bet is whether it'll be before or after Christmas. _

_I'm writing because it's too far to go to anyone's house. I brought Karissa over once. She was scared. I said I was sorry. I really was, I thought she had a doctor's appointment and wouldn't be there. But Karissa made a new friend, Ana. She eats lunch with her now instead. And Aaron moved to be closer to his mom's prison. So if I think about it, where would I go anyway? The library maybe, but my dad has like $20 in overdue fees. I don't have $20 so I couldn't check anything out. _

_Dad. When he was helping mom get ready…he didn't lock the door to the study. I could find out things. Stuff he doesn't want me knowing, bills and documents and stuff. He never tells me anything these days except trying to tell me things are fine. He told me this morning so I burned the pancakes on purpose. So burnt pancakes are now fine in the Hadley household. Mom is FINE and everything else is FINE. _

_He'll never know if I take a peek. _

* * *

I know, it's been forever. I have no excuse, but this _is _the longest chapter yet :p Just fyi, this story is in the home stretch now, 3 or 4 more chapters at the most. And in regards to Monday's season finale, ignore it! It did NOT happen, ok? *crosses arms in firm and everlasting denial*

And thank you to my slavedriver for editing most of this, I'm just impatient so hopefully the last part doesn't have typos. You get your own small paragraph.


	8. Chapter 8

I think the more I'm left alone to my thoughts, the stranger they become. I thought about the last time I was on a bus, staring out the window. There was a spider web on the outside, woven that morning with drops of dew still holding on. Suddenly as the light changed I saw wings – a fly was caught. I imagined I was a fly, with a thousand eyes seeing in black and white, blurry and many images, and running into that web. Suddenly I was bound and paralyzed, and then moving at the same time. Moving faster than I'd even flown, wanting to break free but doing so would surely mean death, for I couldn't fly. Dew is coating my wings, I'm heavy. Violent shaking as the bus turns, a rumbling lullaby to the sleeping child and my silent torture, but the threads of the web hold too strongly.

I wonder: If I just go along for this ride, am I still alive?

Then again, it doesn't matter. Some spider will eat me anyway.

* * *

_Journal of J. Hadley – 1990 _

_I never thought I would be the one. Despite our civil wedding, I promised, swore to myself that you would be my only one. I loved you so much that I can't really describe it. Partially because it's not a feeling that has lasted. But you have to know I never intended to. What a bullshit excuse that is. I know it, I don't deny how wrong it is, how sick I am with myself. In sickness and in health…also bullshit. _

_But deep down, somewhere, I have that question. Would you hate me? And I have the answer: no. Because your feelings aren't your feelings, they don't matter. I scream in my own head that YOU don't care about me anyway so why should I sacrifice for you? I don't even matter; do you even know I exist? The disease, the disease disease disease, the disease is a disease in both senses of the word. This destruction I thought could never happen, it's an excuse to everything, the answer, and it's all that fucking MATTERS. _

_I simply, as simple as I can be, can't bother myself to care. I've cared enough, haven't I? You aren't my wife anymore; some malign thing has taken up residence and taken you, you from me. You're already gone and now when you can break back through, you're just suffering. You're tired too. I feel it, I feel too much and too little at once, it's just misery and makes no sense and I can't even slow down without running into a wall. I want it to be over, just over with and forget it all, our love, anything and just stop bearing this pain and burden. It's not a fucking test and if it is, I fail. _

_That was my mindset. I had to get out, so I did. I drove to the hospice and saw a familiar face, a nurse I knew from Ann's stays at the hospital. She works here part-time. _

_I can't call her my salvation. A temporary delay, a momentary reprieve from the stark reality I face every day as I make another red X on the calendar, counting down the days in my head. One more, one less. One more I'm getting through. One less you have left. _

_Her hair is bright red, because her last patient had Alzheimer's and she wanted her to remember her face. Blue eyes. 'The silly circus runaway!' the woman called her. She led me around. She showed me her room. The sheets on the bed were crisp, freshly changed but they still held the odor that was seemingly abundant and never leaving of this room, the smell of decay and cleaning chemicals and sterile cloth and saline. The sheets are too perfect. The woman ran to the circus in the sky. _

_We kissed. Suddenly they were wrinkled, I pushed into them and she was between me and the bed, hungry and desperate. I was touching her and didn't have to hold her, her hands were considerate and steadfast. I clung to her and caressed her neck, ingesting this marvelous wonder, a body of its own free will and mine once again. I kissed it and treasured how steady it was, something to be sure of when the one I had grown accustomed to was random and repeatedly measured and monitored. I breathed in deeply between her breasts, the smell of strawberries. We could have been anywhere. _

_I laid there as time began to slow again, my thoughts speeding back up. I've lost track of the times this replays in my mind, or when she has a break of routine in her shift, between my visits. She buttoned her shirt back up and our bodies parted like a joint with her knee still on the bed. Her eyes twinkled and she bent back to kiss my cheek. They became sad. She left me on those sheets, in the clinging stench of death, the last breaths of the woman now in the circus in the sky. I almost wanted to laugh. _

_Ann took a turn for the worse. _

* * *

I need to get out of here. I've been hearing the beeping of your heart for so long, so steadily that it's become a sickening lullaby that I'll drift off to, the music stopping as soon as the child falls asleep. I need the dull hum of a foreign air conditioner, just barely audible through a few inches of concrete and plaster.

I get up, let my body stretch and adjust to the new position, and walk along the hallway to the bathroom, even though your room has one. I'm careful not to knock anyone over and just fly below the radar, ignoring glances, and make my way to the end of the hall, to the stairs nobody ever uses. Up one, two, three, five stairways to the coma ward. Nobody can kick me out for my terrible bedside manner, right?

I'm mildly surprised, or rather just stirred from my routine, that someone is in the ladies room. A petite young woman, maybe a teenager, is washing her hands. As I get closer I realize she's either being very maniacal about it or not really washing them, for there's an enourmous amount of soap in her hands and the water is running, but there is no washing taking place. She seems to be playing with it.

She notices me. "Hello," she says.

Her cheery voice strains my ears. I don't want to open my mouth; it's such an effort to break my natural, escaping silence, and even more so when I have to think about what to say, let alone hold a mundane and awkward conversation with a stranger. "Hi," is my cracked reply. I make no effort to go to the stalls – they're all open – and I feel her watching me.

"Whatcha thinking about?" she asks.

My throat hurts. It's the chemicals – this is one of the few places they use Lysol instead of the cleaners that give this place the trademark hospital smell. I love it. "Life." I guess.

"Me too," she answers, stretching out the 'me' obnoxiously. Why does the 'too' when someone answers have to have two o's? Wow, I used every form of the word. My thoughts are convoluted.

"You're wasting water," I point out.

"Shit happens," she says. She turns it off nonetheless.

"Yeah," I manage. Everything is beginning to hurt.

"Try the bubbles," she says, smiling at me. "It helps." I wonder, do I look like I need help?

I can't make the effort to smile back. But, since I have nothing to lose and it might make her leave faster, I place my hand under the soap dispenser and pump out the bubbles, thick and foamy and tinted pink.

"Now scrub it around," she explains, showing me her own hands. She repeatedly squishes them together. They make a disgusting squelching sound but it's oddly comforting in a childish, wonderful sense. The soap on my hands begins to feel sticky and I mimick her rubbing it, but I realize I don't have nearly enough soap. Whereas a few seconds ago she was wasting gallons of water, I pump the soap dispenser for all its worth, leaving a small bubbly trail where my hand was.

After a bit of kneading, my hands feel smooth and fall over each other in a pleasant, hypnotic rhythm. I observe the bubbles – small ones in clumps, just little fluffs on my palms, while between my fingers and the pads there are larger bubbles, ones you blew as a kid that offer a mini-rainbow of purple, blue, green, and pink. I see the younger woman blowing one of those bubbles across the back of her hand. I'm not compelled to try it. Instead I have the urge to pop them all, quench them between my palms and expel their calm nature from in front of me. I do it.

Then I realize the other woman has left. I'm alone.

I feel like crying. I stare down at my hand and quickly, wash all the bubbles, the evidence, off and away. Down the dreain. The jet of water against the stark white sink disturbs the much more than uneasy silence in my mind.

I breathe. Turn the water off. Calm down.

I feel my hands again, almost methodically, trying to feel as much as I can. They're slightly sticky and at the same time dry. As if the bubbles coated against them and kept the water out, but at the same time no bubbles remain, not even on the outsides of my wrists. I checked.

I notice that many bubbles in the adjacent sink are still there. All small ones, because the water pops the largest. It's so silent that I can hear them all pop, one by one. Like cereal. I zero in on each one as it goes, a tiny blip blip blip and the pile gets smaller. In the back of my head I cynically note that as I watch these bubbles, somewhere around the world a person dies with each one. But if you asked me to count them and subtract the ones lost, I couldn't. Therefore I don't care.

Lysol and blips fill two of my senses as my eyes fall upon the sink. I prop my elbows on it and look at the metal handle. There are three fresh water drops, but underneath the metallic blue-gray sheen I see barely white-ish soap scum, accumulating over quite a few years I imagine, and green-amber rust where you pull up the handle to release the water. There's the navy blue of the stalls behind me and the odd glow of my arms in the light. Me and my chin and distorted arms are reflected in three places.

Blip, blip, blip. There are less now.

I wash them all away. The water circles around and swallows them all. But since I'm not here to hear it, it doesn't make a sound.

* * *

_11/30/90_

_I'M WAITING FOR HIM TO WALK THROUGH THAT DOOR SO I CAN KILL HIM. Genetic - familial: occurring among members of a family usually by heredity. Huntington's Disease – an autosomal dominant disorder passed down THROUGH FAMILIES, in which there is a 50% chance of inheriting the gene from an affected parent. It's genetic and HE NEVER __TOLD __ME! He never told me I could END UP LIKE HER! I feel sick. I MIGHT be sick. _

_No. I'm not like her. I'm not a monster and I'm not going to yell. If he knows I know, he'll just hug me and say its ok when it's not. He'll lie like he has been, it's how he keeps from just dying with her. I'm great at lying – maybe that's genetic too. _

_I'm not going to die. He'll tell me about it once she's dead and in the ground, but I won't get it and I'll never have to deal with her again. I hate her, I just want her gone! We aren't a family anymore, we're slaves. She's a slave to a disease and she's being beaten like she deserves, and dad is a slave to her because he __loves__ this ghost of her. Which reminds me at the beginning of the year, our teacher had us make a list of things we want to do in life. I'll fucking cross that off. _

_I have to organize the papers on the desk back to the messy crap they were before. My feet are on the carpet and it's hot from the sun even though it's winter. Maybe there will be a movie on or something. But without the happily ever after. _

* * *

Just a small note, this is the second to last chapter. This actually getting more fun to write with each chapter (notice the length increasing) but I have the rest of it worked out and it's just how the cards fall. And I can't pay for anyone's therapy besides my own, so I shouldn't contribute to such depression ;) Thank you slavedriver for putting up with my fluffy distractions and everyone still reading.


	9. Chapter 9

…You're awake.

* * *

_Journal of J. Hadley – 1991_

_Ann started coughing a week ago. They said they'd keep an eye on it, that I shouldn't worry. It got worse. Her already shallow breath – all I can think of to describe it is a sandstorm trying to stir up water from a scorched earth – and the tremors left her drained and the antibiotics didn't help. Immunity to them, I guess, and she's too weak to deal with side effects of stronger ones. So it turned into pneumonia._

_Who would have thought this could happen? Nobody. But it's happening. One small mercy is that we drew up our wills years ago. _

_I'm in a shell shocked state I guess. Just trying to sort out my thoughts…this has all passed now. This too shall pass. That's what those who see the glass half full say. _

_I ended up making Remy come to the hospice. I don't care to figure out exactly what's best for her at this point… All this time, I've been trying to keep a sense of order to our lives and ignore what's been crashing down all around us. But I just took her. She needs to see her mother. Ann would have never won mother of the year, but she loved Remy. And so Remy has to remember that. If anything, it's the one thing I'm sure of at the moment. _

_She was silent for the entire drive. Clenching her jaw as if she was trying not to speak with all her willpower. I saw no tears in her eyes. She looked over at me and I realized the light was green. Somehow she'd grown up. And I missed it completely. _

_When I left, Ann's breathing was labored but stable, drifting in and out of conscious. I went into her room and saw that the oxygen and morphine had increased. Remy was just outside the doorway, hands shoved deep in the pockets of her jeans. There was a hand on her shoulder, one I knew. _

"_Sweetie?" she asked. Her eyes darted to mine and I quickly looked away, at Ann, before looking back. I had to. But internally I begged, please leave. You know not what you do to me. "Do you want some juice? I can show you where the vending machine is."_

_I saw Remy's eyes close and knew in that instant what was about to happen. It was a flash, slow motion or perhaps both at the once. Her fist connected with that perfect jaw, she let out a cry as she stumbled back from the blow. That beautiful red hair fell out of its neat, classic bun and I looked into those blue eyes again, searching for that escape. Remy was yelling, calling her a skank. _

_Hannah slapped her. I unfroze and yelled for her to GET OUT. I didn't want to hear her excuses. I was tired of seeing my daughter get hurt and she would never be in our life. Give us a different nurse and get out. _

_She left, holding her jaw. And I finally saw how imperfect she was. The ringing in my ears faded, replaced again by the beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor. I looked around for Remy, but…_

_Ann was awake. She shook from the fever but for a split second, tried to reach out her hand to me. I was at her side at once and took it, wiping the tangled mess of hair, some parts soaked with sweat, out of her face. To see her blue eyes. My own began to mist over and I kissed her cheek, holding her steady…She was my perfection. My broken perfection, my shattered mirror of choppy waves, with eyes of that blue-steel grey color. They didn't fade on me. She's still here with me. _

_She tried to talk but I quickly shushed her, fearful of the weak throat muscles in combination with her now very shaky lungs. I moved my hand to her chest, feeling each labored breath. It was like the sound of a paper hospital gown crinkling, ripping apart. I began to cry. But no, she was still breathing. I swallowed the tears. _

_One deep, racking breath. Half my name. I shushed her, no. She could tell me later. _

_My name again, she swallowed and continued._

"_I'm… sorry. I wasn't always… like this."_

_I have to write it down. They aren't true, she has nothing to be sorry for. And I know she wasn't. But as she said that she seemed to look beyond me. I stood up and ran to the doorway, but there was nobody there. _

_Once again, I was brought back by the heart monitors. The lack thereof. _

_

* * *

_

_1/19/91_

_I was watching the Wizard of Oz when dad came home. Ding dong, the witch is dead. The wicked witch is dead… I've stolen her ruby slippers. It looked really warm in Oz, but dad made me bundle up and we went to the car. He doesn't tell me where we're going anymore, so I can't protest. But I knew where we were going. _

_We parked and I ran through the lobby, not letting anyone get a long enough look at me. I found one of the whiteboards with patient names and room numbers. I ran down the hall and found the room. I stopped outside and the smell hit me. Death. You have to call it that. I walked in anyway. _

_She was sleeping. But to make sure, I put my finger under her nose even though the oxygen tube was there. Yup, breathing. And the heart monitor made sure I guess. I had wanted her to be awake, but I guess you're not awake much when you're slowly dying. I was going to tell her everything I wanted to say, just to say it. _

_But she woke up. She looked confused for a second and coughed. It made my chest twist. _

_I said it anyway. I had so much planned, but all I could say was, "I hate you."_

_She turned to look at me. I repeated it, I hate you. I hate everything about you and you were never my mother, I don't love you and you might have given me what's killing you, so good fucking riddance and I'm GLAD you're dead now! _

_Ding dong, the witch is DEAD! _

_But that's not what I said, I didn't get a chance because I heard footsteps. I ran back outside the room and knew my dad was coming, so I turned to look like I hadn't gone in. Then that BITCH he cheated on mom with talked to me so I slapped her, that fucking skank, that WHORE. I hate her, and him. He thinks I don't know but how could I not if he comes home smelling like her instead of disinfectant? Guess he doesn't care. _

_I just got out of there. I ran to where I knew the vending machine was and hid in the space behind one. It gave off heat against my hand and I pressed my hand on the metal grate. I didn't want to think about my mom or my dad, they don't even deserve those titles, or the bitch. It hurt but what does it matter? He's not going to notice, and it didn't hurt that much. _

_But...I cried. I didn't even realize it until it was too late and wiped them off right away, so it was like it never happened. But it did. _

_We're home now. She's dead. Mom's dead. And eventually, except for a gravestone far away from our house, there won't be a monument. Like it never happened. Her stuff will get packed away. But it still happened. _

_I had to run back to the room. I couldn't cry in front of an old Coca Cola poster, even though I kind of wanted it. _

_I stood at the door. Dad was sitting by her. _

"_I'm sorry," she said. "I wasn't always like this."_

_Don't expect forgiveness from me. Ever. _

_Then she died. _

_Ding dong. _

_

* * *

_

I've been waiting for so long it feels, that I'm kind of numb as I walk to your room. All these thoughts and musings, the journals and diaries I keep under the bed in a bag where nobody will find them, sans the ones I'm currently reading – read; an impromptu finish if I ever saw one.

But I feel my own chest get heavy and before I can bear to go into your room, I pull out my wallet. Technically it's yours. It has the only picture of your mother you cared to keep. It's faded and worn around the edges, bent in some places. The harsh lights above, despite it being at least midnight, cast highlights in odd places. I focus on the hazy dots of her irises before my own cloud over. I try to recall why I am crying, and I can't. I can't remember what I've just read, as if my mind has chosen to become catatonic. I'm crying but I can't put rationales behind it, just overwhelmed and letting myself relieve that pressure. Since tears, after all, are what only the soul can express. Maybe my soul can't handle this.

I'm crying for your mother. I'll never know her story, or her mother's story, or her mother's story. This ceaseless suffering from generation to generation, destroying everyone it touches like a choking weed in one way or another. I'm crying for your father, and her father, and so on. People like us. But this line of degeneration will finally end with you. My story won't have to be passed on.

But you aren't at your end yet. I refuse to accept that. And I'm selfish, I know that. Because I'm the only reason you're still here. You're my red balloon tethered down with a lead weight. You must hate me. But I can't cut the string.

So you let the wind try and blow you away.

The photo is in my hands, clutched so tightly I could smear away her face. I wonder what would happen if I did that. What if all the pictures, all the words, all our memories just faded. Burning themselves out, ashes to ashes. I can try and tell myself that this is wrong, you wanting to be carried away by this breeze, a freeing breath. But beyond those clouds balloons disappear into, there's something wonder.

I walk in. You're facing the window, even though there's nothing to see.

What am I supposed to say to you? Somehow, my internal sarcasm perks up. So much for the dress rehearsal.

I walk over and take your hand in mind. It's shaking but you weakly squeeze back. I know if I bite my lip any harder I'll draw blood, so a new wave of tears comes and I silently cry over you. They land on your fingers, the viscosity of the water keeping it still and whole while we both break.

"Please…don't cry."

I inhale a guttural breath. The room is lit dimly, but warm, yet it feels so cold. How can I not cry? These past years, all that we've been through flashes before me, as if I'm the one dying. Because internally I am. I can't think about a world without you because if I did, it's not a world I could stand to live in. All the responses, everything I could say or ask you run through my mind. Of course, they all start with the same word.

"Why?"

Your right hand carefully, very carefully, wipes away a few of my tears, plastered and staining my cheeks. I know why. Your mental degeneration – your cognitive and memory abilities in general – and your tremors are getting worse. Pills after pills aren't having any significant effects. It's literally a matter of time. So it's perfectly rational.

I vaguely wonder if you can place the name to my face.

You're reading my mind. "Allison…" You can't finish. Or perhaps don't see the need to.

I shouldn't have kept all the pills on the kitchen table. I shouldn't have gone to get groceries. I knew you would, I know that I knew, and I went anyway…

My hand is still clutching the photograph. Even though it's in color, the difference between you two is so black and white, in a world full of grey.

You swallow and take my hand in your bony one, your eyes half open. You clasp it and rub your thumb against the back of my hand up and down, as much as your motor skills would allow. Softly, I kissed your lips. My lashes brushed against your now wet cheek.

"I love you," I whisper, pushing my forehead to yours. That should have been enough. You can't try and go before I let you. "I don't want you to leave me yet."

"Well," you say, "you can't always get what you want."

* * *

*long sigh* Well, that's it. I know, my open endings. At this point I don't care if I'm hated for them. That's one story down, and after this I'll wrap up I do. After that…well, who knows. But thank you everyone for reading. Please share your thoughts and then go watch some cute videos to cheer up :)


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